Martyrdom's Allies
by FullMetalCrayon
Summary: The imagination is a damned thing.


Read the bottom before you judge. My madness has a method, believe it or not.

* * *

><p>"Hey there...Colonel."<p>

It's an awkward greeting from an almost grown man (when the hell did he get _tall_?) who stands in the doorway, a just as awkward grin plastered onto his face.

I blink in surprise. "You're still here?"

He laughs and smiles again. "C'mon, you didn't think I'd leave without saying goodbye, did you?"

I study his face. He seems happy, genuinely happy, not the almost-content façade of a determined alchemist. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was a civilian.

But somehow I figured 'normal' isn't in his vocabulary.

I swivel the chair so that my back is to him out of habit. Intimidation is a factor that works greatly in my favor (or used to. Presidents are honorable people, so why would I need to intimidate?)

(So many unanswered questions.)

"What're you doing here, Fullmetal?" I ask, the words dripping out before I can stop them. I don't mean that, I want to add, but I'm surprised at how tired I sound. How worn.

(Does my face show it?)

If the remark stings, he hides it well. "Just came to..ah, say bye, I guess."

I force myself to turn back to his face. It glows, like the light of a thousand moons, but in different ways than it used to. When we first met, on that fateful day in Resembool, it was the eyes. They were like liquid pools of oil, simmering and dancing beneath the surface. He hated my cool tone, and I knew it.

(Haven't I always been the manipulative type? I know _exactly _how to make you tick.)

I knew he'd hook himself on the bait and I could reel him in, one way or another. And he allowed himself to be caught, didn't he?

I'm generally right about these things.

(Because I don't have room to be wrong.)

But now, his face is innocent.

He looks like the twelve-year-old self he abandoned a long, long time ago. He's pure.

(Always has been.)

I allow my tone to soften. He looks hopeful (what does he want from me?); those unnerving eyes of his rake my face, like there's some sort of answer there. Don't go, perhaps?

(Please don't.)

It starts to come out, that selfish, needy plea for him to stay (just a minute longer!) but instead, I reply hollowly, like any good leader.

"Goodbye, Fullmetal."

And that when it happens.

_(When the world ends.)_

**Fact:** I am the President.

_(a lousy, terrible one- this country deserves better than a wretch like me)_

**Fact:** Fullmetal is a man, no longer made from metal at all.

_(He achieved his goals. He should move on, isn't that what you do? Why haven't I?)_

**Fact:** I should be facing trial for my crimes in Ishval.

_(Simply following orders. That's been the bastard's cry since the beginning of time.) _

**Fact:** I am a coward.

_(The bloody Flame Alchemist. A coward.)_

_(And when the facts get all lined up like that, they're not so pretty anymore, are they?)_

_**(It's like a snowglobe when all the snow has settled to the bottom.)**_

That's when I realize.

All these years have been for nothing.

I can talk, and dream, and sport shiny stars on my uniform. But then it's like a delusion; Fullmetal tricking himself into believing he could bring back his dead mother.

I can't do it.

I can't commit suicide, however indirectly. I'm too proud.

_(If there's a Hell my name is the first in the list of sinners.)_

I nod.

Resigned is a nature I'm comfortable with.

"Have a nice train ride home, Ed," I say, and this time I'm surprised at how clean it comes out. I expected it to hurt, or to something, something other than this reality I've discovered for myself.

(Why the hell did I try all these years?)

(Maes could be alive.)

His smile dissipates for a second, like he was expecting something else from me. Perhaps his imagination has built me up to be a better man than I am.

(I know mine has.)

"I..I will." He stammers, and then he is gone.

* * *

><p>"Hawkeye?"<p>

It's a quiet thing, really, the word that comes out of my mouth. It's nothing new nor nothing old, I've been saying it ever since an adolescent. But on this particular occasion, it is laden down with meaning.

The word itself is almost heavy, rolling off my tounge.

"Sir?" She doesn't acknowledge how desperate I sound. I know she hears it, watered down into the grains of my voice (if she were any more observant they'd call her God instead of Hawkeye.) But she pretends not to, and for that and a list of other things I am grateful.

(The military is all about pretending.)

"I need a train ticket to Resembool."

(She doesn't ask why.)

* * *

><p>I am not surprised to see it hasn't changed.<p>

(If I close my eyes, I can almost feel Hawkeye beside me and the fresh determination that used to overcome me.)

(Somehow, though, trying to fathom life without the Elric brothers is like trying to count the stars when you're blind.)

(Wouldn't I know.)

I remember the way- how could I not?- and almost instinctively, my body sets off toward the Rockbell residence as if beckoned by God himself.

(Another thing the military is all about. Instinct.)

One thing that has changed, though, is there used to be a house upon that hill. A dainty one, it was, it un-tended flowers dotting the trim and a wonderful wood swing dangling from a tree.

I almost have to stop and catch my breath.

It hits me hard, how much the Elrics went through. That house...

I couldn't burn it down. I couldn't bear to.

(The master of fire is objected to burning something.)

It is forlornly that I wonder how full of love that house was. It must've been something special, if a woman worth your brother's body and your limbs lived there. (Was she really that special, Elric, or did your mind make her out to be that way?)

I almost feel nauseous for thinking it.

* * *

><p>"Mustang?"<p>

I would've smirked at his obviousness, and made a snide remark.

But something tells me I'm not feeling up to it today.

"Fullmetal." I reply back, looking anywhere but his face. I don't know how I ended up here, to be honest.

(I don't know how I did anything.)

"Are you okay, Colonel?" He sounds worried, genuinely worried for me and I'm almost taken aback until I remember who Edward Elric is.

(He cares.)

"I'm...I...I.."

I just let myself trail off. I should leave; this would be the second time I'd busted in on an innocent boy's life and tried to ruin it. Too bad I can't bring myself to.

(Where's the selflessness now, Mustang?)

(Did it crash and burn with everything else?)

The air around us feels troubled. I don't want to see his expression, so I stare at the wooden steps beneath me (haven't changed either, it's amazing what stays the same while the world around it collapes.)

"C'mon, Roy, let's go for a walk."

_The leash is in your hands now, kid_, I think, but I don't say it out loud.

I'm a good dog.

* * *

><p>I'm <span>almost<span> shamed by my behavior. I'm the leader, the alpha, not some puppy that runs with its tail tucked between it legs at the first sign of uneasiness.

(Where did it go?)

"Colonel?"

I feel his hand on my shoulder so I look up (or, more accurately, somewhat down) and meet his eyes.

"Do you need me for military affairs? If you do, just say so, I know I'm not an alchemist but I'll help you, Mustang, don't doubt it-"

I hold up a finger to shush him. The prodigy, the genius, is rambling.

(Do I make him that on edge?)

"I'm...I'm not Mustang."

He stops, wide-eyed, and gets into defensive position. I can see what he's thinking (I didn't read people for years for nothing).

"I'm not Envy, if that's what you're guessing at."

(I add the last bit for his benefit. He's like a book. And just as expected, he doesn't lower his aggressive stance.)

"Then who the hell are you?"

"I...I don't know."

And that's when it clicks.

He understands (I knew he would!) and he lightly touches my shoulder with a half-smile pressed onto his face as though he ironed it there for my sake.

(It's flesh, flesh flesh flesh. The hand is flesh.)

(Fullmetal is flesh.)

(The irony chokes me.)

"Roy," he says, and his eyes hold mine with the force of a million alchemical reactions. "It's not how we fall, but how we get back up again, isn't it? I've got a family to look after, and you've got a country to run, but the wisdom doesn't mean anything less than when I heard it the first time."

The words pierce my mind like shellfire. The words of a sage, in the voice of a child. (I didn't expect anything less from the great Fullmetal Alchemist.)

(Can I get back up?)

(This isn't me. Roy Mustang doesn't break.)

(Who am I?)

_(So many unanswered questions.)_

* * *

><p>That was extremely out of character, and that was the point. As I was reflecting today, on my inner thoughts and things within, I landed on the subject of Mustang and his trial for war crimes.<p>

Honestly, I don't think (by the way he is laid out as a character) that he could do it. He's supposedly this proud, ambitious man with these plans and these dreams. And he's supposed to be smart. Smart leaders don't kill themselves shortly after being inaugurated.

That would leave the country to more corruption, wouldn't it?

Just some brain fodder.

~FullMetalCrayon out.

(Sorry for the hiatus. I'm back.)

(Tell your friends.)


End file.
